Nelson DeMille - The book case

I said to him, “Stay right here.”

I walked to where Mia Parker was sitting in the wingback chair, looking a bit more composed, and without any preamble I asked her, “Who helped you remove the furniture wedges?”

She replied, “Jay.”

I was fairly certain that was not true and not possible.

“When?”

“Last…early this morning.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Why would I lie?”

Well, because Jay was screwing a babe all night, and you are very pissed off.

Mrs. Parker needed less sympathy and understanding and more shock treatment, so I said to Rourke, “Cuff her.” But softie that I am, I instructed front cuffs instead of back-so she could dab her eyes and blow her nose.

Rourke told her to stand, gave her a quick but thorough pat down, and then cuffed her wrists in the front.

I said to Rourke, “Call for a car.” I added, “I’ll be riding with her to the precinct.”

Mia Parker, now cuffed, under arrest, and about to be taken to the station house for booking, was undergoing a transformation. Early this morning, she was a married lady with a boyfriend and an inconvenient husband. Now she had no boyfriend and no husband. And no future. I’ve seen this too many times, and if I said it didn’t get to me, I’d be lying.

The person I felt most sorry for, of course, was Otis Parker. He ran a crappy bookstore and he didn’t give service with a smile, but he didn’t deserve to die.

I asked Mrs. Parker, “If he dies, is all this yours?”

She looked around, then replied, “I hate this store.”

“Right. Answer the question.”

She nodded, then informed me, “We had a prenup…I didn’t get much in a divorce…but…”

“You got a lot under his will.” I asked, “Life insurance?”

She nodded again, then continued, “I also got the building and the…business.” She laughed and said, “The stupid business…he owes the publishers a fortune. The business is worth nothing.”

“Don’t forget the fixtures and the good will.”

She laughed again. “Good will? His customers hate him. I hate him.”

“Right.”

She continued, “This store was draining us dry…he was going to mortgage the building…I had to do something…”

“Of course.” I’ve heard every justification possible for spousal murder, and most of them are amazingly trivial. Like, “My wife thought cooking and fucking were two cities in China.” Or, “My husband watched sports all weekend, drank beer, and farted.” Sometimes I think being a cop is less dangerous than being married.

Anyway, Mrs. Parker forgot to mention that she’d planned this long before the marriage or that she had a boyfriend. But I never nitpick a confession.

I inquired, “Do you have a buyer for the building?”

She nodded.

I guessed, “Two million?”

“Two and a half.”

Not bad. Good motive.

She also let me know, “His stupid collector books are worth about fifty thousand.” She added, “He buys them, but can’t seem to sell them.”

“Has he tried the Internet?”

“That’s where he buys them.” She confided to me, “He’s an idiot.”

“Put that in your statement,” I suggested.

She seemed to notice that she was cuffed, and I guess it hit her all at once that the morning had not gone well, and she knew why. She let me know, “All men are idiots. And liars.”

“What’s your point?”

She also let me know, “Those books in his office are worth about ten thousand.”

“Really?” Poetic justice?

As I said, I’m not married, but I have considered it, so to learn something about that I asked her, “Why’d you marry him?”

She didn’t think the question was out of line, or too personal, and she replied, “I was divorced…lonely…”

“Broke?”

She nodded and said, “I met him at a party in LA…he said he was well off…he painted a rosy picture of life in New York…” She thought a moment, then said, “Men are deceitful.”

“Right. And when did you think about whacking him?”

She totally ignored my question and went off into space awhile. Then she looked at Jay in the back of the store and asked me, “Why isn’t he under arrest?”

I don’t normally answer questions like that, but I replied, “He has an alibi.” I reminded her, “The lady he spent the night with.” I shared with her, “His publicist, Samantha-”

“That whore!”

The plot thickens. But that might be irrelevant. More to the point, Mrs. Parker was getting worked up again, and I said to her, “If you can convince me-with facts-that he conspired with you in this attempt on your husband’s life, then I’ll arrest him.”

She replied, “We planned this together for over two years. And I can prove it.” She added, “It was his idea.” She let me know, “He’s nearly broke.”

“Right.” I confessed, “I didn’t like his last book.” I already knew the answer to my next question, but I asked for the record, “Why’d you wait so long?”

“Because,” she replied with some impatience, “it took Otis two years to marry me.”

“Right.” Guys just can’t commit. Meanwhile that bookcase is just waiting patiently to fall over. This was the most premeditation I’d ever seen. Cold, calculating, and creepy. I mean, when Otis Parker said, “I do,” his blushing bride was saying, “You’re done.”

The good news is that property values have gone up in the last two or three years. I don’t know about collectible books, though.

I tried to reconstruct the crime, to make sure I was getting it right. D-day for Otis Parker was the day after Jay Lawrence came to town to promote his new book. Today. Jay was supposed to help Mia last night to set up the bookcase for a tumble, then maybe a drink and a little boom-boom at the Carlyle, and some pillow talk about being together and psyching each other up for the actual murder. And this morning Jay would be here to comfort the widow.

But Jay, at some point, as the big day approached, got cold feet. All his Rick Strong books ended with the bad guy in jail, and Jay didn’t want that ending for himself. So he made a date with his publicist and ditched Mia, leaving Mia to do it all by herself. She had the balls. He had the shakes.

One of the things that bothered me was that Otis Parker was in his office early on the morning that he was going to be whacked. That wasn’t coincidence. Not if this was all planned in advance.

I went back to my original thought that Otis Parker had an appointment. And who was that appointment with? And why didn’t Scott know about it?

Maybe he did.

I said to Rourke, “I’ll be in the stockroom. Keep an eye on these two. Let me know when the car gets here.”

That made Mia think of something, and she asked me, “Where’s the ambulance?”

“I don’t know. Stuck in traffic.”

She stared at me and shouted, “You bastard! You lied to me!”

“You lied to me first.”

“You…you…”

I was glad she was cuffed. Rourke put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her into the chair.

Meanwhile Jay heard some of this, or figured it out, and he walked quickly toward me and asked, “Why isn’t the ambulance here?”

I confessed, “Otis Parker doesn’t need an ambulance.”

Jay looked as stunned as when I had pronounced Otis alive.

People don’t like to be tricked, and Mia let loose again. Sweet voice aside, she swore like a New Yorker. Good girl.

Jay Lawrence recovered from his shock and informed me, “You…that was not…that’s not admissible…”

“Hey, he looked like he was trying to stand. I’m not a doctor.”

“You…you said he spoke to you…”